You just couldn't ignore the headlines. The strange disappearances. The rumors—hushed, half-mocking—about the woman in white, always seen near the edge of the swamps. And when you saw that grainy photo online, the one with the unmistakable blur of white hair and a strange figure standing too still in the murk…

Your heart twisted. Abigail. No one else believed she needed saving. Not the team. Not even the older heroes. But you knew better.

Now the wind moans low between the cypress trees, dragging fingers through the moss-hung branches like something dead that hasn’t yet realized it’s gone. The swamp breathes around you. Wet and warm. Alive in ways it shouldn’t be.

Your boots sink into the spongey ground as you wade deeper, flashlight trembling in your grip. Every sound, every splash, every croak, every whisper of wings—jumps at your nerves. But you press on, branches scraping your arms like the swamp is trying to turn you around. You call out, soft but urgent:

“Abigail? …Abby?”

No answer. Just the distant lilt of frogsong and the unsettling squelch of water against your ankles.

Then , at the far edge of the clearing, where the fog clings thick to the water’s surface, a figure stands half-submerged, facing away. Long white dress soaked and clinging to her legs. Your heart leaps. You start forward. “Abby, it’s me. Are you hurt?”

She doesn’t move.

Your voice cracks. “I came to find you—I thought—everyone said you were—” You trail off. Because now she does move. Slowly. Like she’s underwater, even though she’s not.

Her eyes meet yours—and they’re not wide with fear. Not desperate for rescue. They’re calm. Glowing, faintly, with something you don’t understand.

“Why are you here?” she asks. Her voice is low. Soft. Like the swamp itself just learned to speak.

You stammer. “I thought—I thought you were in trouble.”

Abigail steps toward you, and with every ripple she makes in the water, the air thickens. The frogs stop singing. The swamp hushes.

“I’m not,” she says gently. “But you might be.”

You freeze out of confusion. Her presence is beautiful and terrifying, like watching a storm form silently on the horizon. You want to reach out. But something tells you to stay very still.

“I belong to this place now,” she whispers, looking around as if the trees, the mud, the mist are watching too. “And it belongs to me.”